


and the sun beats down a friendly tune

by coldandyoung



Category: Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Family Member Death, Gen, Italian Tony Stark, Minor Original Character(s), Tony-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:45:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9094075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldandyoung/pseuds/coldandyoung
Summary: Growing up, Tony was more Italian than American, he thinks.





	

Tony’s grandfather lived on top of a hill. When he was little, and a good day was spent playing the piano with his mother, and plucking not yet fully grown apples off trees, he would sprint to the top of the hill, the hazy, midday Italian sunlight beating down on him. Rushing past other houses on the steep incline, dogs behind gates would bark at him, watching as he ran - his mother left at the bottom, laughing a tinkling laugh. He would reach the top, thoroughly winded, and there would be his _Nonno_ , laughing heartily, and quickly plucking him up and spinning him around his shoulders as soon as he was within arms length.

 

His mother belonged to a large family, with many siblings and cousins and nephews and nieces and aunts and uncles and every relation under the sun, but he had only ever met his Nonno. His mother’s mother had died a long time ago, and even though his mother travelled regularly back to Italy during the year to see her family, Tony only every came with her in summer, and had never met any of his other maternal relations. Still, he did not mind. His Nonno was amazing, the only grandparent he had left, his one link to a whole other world. It was he that spoke to him in low-toned Italian, he who called Tony _passerotto,_ he who smiled wide, gaps in his teeth plainly showing. His Italian summers were remembered as glorious weeks in the mountains, skin browning and freckling, teeth falling out, scraped knees, and homemade meals. The memories of these days are wavy, pearlescent wisps, and try as he might to grip onto them, they always seemed to fade into obscurity and blow away when faced with the cold, harsh reality of the Stark house, full of empty corridors and cold, sharp surfaces.

 

His Italian summers are a lifeline for quite a long time, up until he realises that screwdrivers and equations and laboratory lights are more appealing to him than the aforementioned scraped knees and tans and homemade meals. So, when his mother comes to discuss their travel plans with him, a large smile plastered over her pleasant face, Tony Stark, who has already built a circuit board and a robot and an engine and countless other things, tells her plainly that he is not going, he’s too busy, and his mother says okay, and Tony is long gone by the time Maria goes up to her bedroom and cries, because she realises that her little boy is lost to her. 

 

And yet she goes to Italy, where her father waits at the top of the hill for her son, and she watches his face crumple as he sees no Tony running up the hill towards him.

 

Everyone thinks that Tony’s first love was machines, but it was actually a little house on the top of a hill, bathed in sunlight and childhood blessings.

 

—

 

The next time Tony sees his Nonno is at his parent’s funeral. It is also the first time he meets the rest of his mother’s family.

 

Tony is standing at the front of the church, his parent’s graves behind him. He is too scared to turn around and look at the open caskets, so he stands next to Obadiah, a pair of dark sunglasses covering his eyes, which can’t decide if they want to cry or not. He is shaking hands with one of his father’s businessmen friends, when the doors of the church open, and a large group of people all walk in. He immediately knows who they are, because they look like his mother and talk like his mother, and they look like him, too.

 

Tony had always taken more after Maria than Howard, having inherited her olive skin, eyes, and thick, dark hair.

 

He also sees his Nonno, and for a second he is young again, climbing trees and swinging his legs on a too-tall chair, but then he remembers that he is not than anymore and his parents are lying dead behind him. So he continues talking to his father’s associate, and he registers out of the corner of his eyes his extended family’s looks, as they obviously recognise him, and his Nonno’s sad gaze as he joins the queue to talk to him next. There are a fair number of people between him and his Nonno, so he runs on autopilot, before suddenly, as if no time has passed at all, his Nonno is in front of him. 

 

His Nonno had been not much older than his father, who was considerably older than most fathers, but he had aged somewhat significantly. His once wiry, thick brown-silver hair was now completely silver, glinting in the candlelight, and slightly thinner. His skin had aged to a worn leather, and his eyes had drooped, as though burdened with the added years. However, his eyes light up when he sees Tony, and he clasps one of Tony’s hands between his, before speaking in the low-toned Italian of Tony’s youth, once again calling him _passerotto_ , saying how sorry he is.

 

However, Tony is not the little boy he once was, so he steels his back and gives a perfectly fake smile, and thanks him for coming, before passing onto the next person. He sees his Nonno’s face drop, and knows he has disappointed greatly, but he doesn’t care, because his parents are lying dead behind him and his eyes can’t decide whether or not to cry.

 

—

 

It’s a long time after that that he finds out that his Nonno is dead. He finds out around the time that he was convinced of his imminent death from palladium poisoning, and, desperate for any connection to anyone, he researched his mother’s family. He has no idea why, as he has never really spoken to them, and he could very clearly see how unimpressed they were with him after his slight rebuttal of his grandfather, but still. 

 

Despite over a decade of silence from both sides, it still hurts him when he finds out that his Nonno died, over five years ago, and no one had told him of the funeral; however, it does not shock him. The ache that he feels, he realises, is dulled and mellow, the vague hurt floating around in his head, a pale yellow the colour of sunshine. 

 

He shakes it off. 

 

—

 

Afterwards, when he somehow does not die - a long time after, actually -, he allows himself to think about it again. Some things he does not understand.

 

He does not understand why his mother never introduced him to her family, and made them his family, too. She clearly knew the loneliness of the Stark house - after all, she lived there too, sometimes - and even if his father didn’t allow him to leave in the middle of his schooling, he doesn’t know why they did not visit their relatives whilst in Italy, or vice versa. 

 

He does not understand his own desperation to grow up, to distance himself, and to become his own man, because now he has no one with whom he shared his scraped knees and loose teeth.

 

But, finally, he does not understand his mother at all, and why she did not fight more for him to go to Italy with her.

 

She was his one link to one whole half of himself, the half of his Italian heritage that he was so acutely aware of when he was younger. Growing up, he was more Italian than American, he thinks - though he spoke both English and Italian from an early age, almost simultaneously, he is fairly sure that his first language was Italian. He and his mother would go to Mass every Sunday, and to confession a few times a month, after which his mother always left looking lighter, somehow, and she would hug him to her side and whisper about getting struffoli, but not to tell his father. At Christmas, their house would be filled with Nativity scenes, and she would tell him stories of her extended family. They would plant flowers at his American grandparent’s graves on November 1st, and she was the only one that would call him Antonio, though he would squirm and beg his mama to oh, just call me Tony, please mama, and she would laugh and pick him up and tickle him until he was giggling so much he almost couldn’t breathe.

 

However, now he is an all-American man, and it is hard to reconcile that with his upbringing. He embodies the future and Americanism to many people, he is aware, but not the type of Americanism associated with Captain America, who is regarded as a beacon of freedom, righteousness, and strength. Tony represents capitalism, consumerism, fast cars and fast living and a new age, a brave new world that many are reluctant to embrace the way Tony has. He knows that he does not represent a necessarily good thing, but, he thinks sardonically, he has achieved his goal of becoming his own man, at least.

 

—

 

So, he starts again, a bit.

 

He speaks Italian more - well, mainly to JARVIS, but no one else he knows speaks it. He starts having Sunday dinners and playing the piano again and doing everything he once did, but.

 

It’s different now that his mother has gone.

 

So, a few days before Christmas, Tony goes back to the old church that his mother had loved so much, and that he has not been to in so many years. He lights a candle and he sits in a pew near the back, and he looks up at the ceiling that extends far above him. It is painted with biblical scenes, faded with time, and he knows that he once knew the stories behind each one, but now he cannot recall them.

 

He sits for a while, passively taking it in, before he hears a voice behind him.

 

“Tony?” Steve says, and he sounds angry, so Tony turns around, and for once doesn’t smile, and says -

 

“The one and only. What brings you here, Cap?”

 

“What-Wh- No, Tony, what brings _you_ here? How did you know that I was coming here? If you’re here to mock me, Stark, I-“ Cap begins, and Tony understands now why he is angry.

 

“Woah, Capsicle, calm down. I’m not here to mock you, jeez, do you really think so bad of me?” Not waiting for an answer, he continues. “No, I’m here cos, uh, my mother and I used to go here when I was younger. She was Italian. I had no idea you used to go here too.”

 

Steve seems cowed. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, before saying- 

 

“No, I didn’t used to go here, this is just where I’ve been coming…” There is a momentary pause where neither of them say anything, and it is broken by Steve saying -

 

“I’m really sorry I accused you like that, I didn't mea-“  It is here that Tony cuts him off.

 

“No, no, it’s fine, don’t worry.”

 

And Tony goes back to staring at the ceiling, and Steve beats a hasty retreat. 

 

—

 

Tony is old now. He has worn leather skin, silver hair, and eyes burdened with age. He is tired.

 

It takes him a long time to climb the hill to the house. The thick, humid air makes breathing harder than normal, but the balmy, powerful sunlight warms his skin to the bone, and he feels more hopeful than he has in a long time. The dogs still bark at him, and the trees still sway, and by the end of his slow amble up the hill, he is as winded as he was when he was small, and he would sprint up the incline. 

 

Tony is alone, though he is not lonely. How could he be when he is home, finally? The birds chirp and the sun beats down a friendly tune, and he looks at the house.

 

It has fallen into disrepair since he had last been here, a whole lifetime ago. The wood has rotted and the foundations have began to fall apart, and despite it not being the same house it once was, it most definitely is. He can see the spectres of his mother and his Nonno, busy in the kitchen together, him swinging his legs at the dinner table, chattering away. He sees long summer days and warm, hazy nights, and he wonders why he is here.

 

Tony sees a tree. It takes a considerable amount of strength, but when he hauls himself into the tree to rest on the branches, he is once again the little boy, hiding from his mother, giggling into his hand as she searches for him, calling out _dove sei, bambino? dove sei, il mio bambino?,_ and even though by now, they are all long gone, he still cannot shake the feeling of contentment he gets, and nor does he want to.

 

So he closes his eyes, and the sun filtering though the leaves is all he knows.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
